


The Eternal Warrior

by DizzyDrea



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Secret Identity, Secrets, Trope Bingo Round 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6563581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an Eternal Warrior hasn't always been easy, but the King had been right, all those years ago. Spending a lifetime—or several—doing things that matter is more than reward enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eternal Warrior

**Author's Note:**

> So, this idea has been percolating for a long time. The basic premise is an idea I've had for an original work of fiction, but I've never really found a way to get the story started. Somehow, it's just not willing to come together. But then I happened on the idea of making Bond an Eternal Warrior, and somehow it just clicked. Except that this story lived in my WIP folder for at least a year, maybe more, before I finally pulled it out, dusted it off and finished it. /facepalm/ This is definitely the Daniel Craig version of Bond, though you can imagine any Bond you want; I don't mind. :) This fills the road trip square on my most recent bingo card, but it sorely stretches the definition of a road trip. Oh well.
> 
> For the _Road Trip_ square on my Trope Bingo card.
> 
> Disclaimer: James Bond at all its particulars is the property of Ian Flemming, Albert and Barbara Broccoli, MGM, Eon Productions and a lot of other people who aren't me. I'm doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

It isn't often that someone gets the drop on Commander James Bond, Agent 007 on Her Majesty's Secret Service.

Or, at least it isn't often that someone gets the drop on him when he hasn't engineered precisely that outcome.

And yet, here he is, tied to a chair—trussed up like a Christmas Goose, in point of fact—facing down a violent arms dealer he was supposed to be retiring. Permanently. Instead, it looks like he's going to be the one retiring, and therein lies the problem.

He can hear breathing on the other end of the line—the one thing Luison hadn't done when he'd been captured was take his earpiece, so he can still hear Q franticly typing away, most likely trying to find an exit strategy for him. But if Luison follows through on his threats—and Bond has no doubt the man will, given his reputation—then his secret will be out. 

Under the previous M, this wouldn't have been an issue. She was a firm believer in the old school of espionage: an agent, a mission, and little to no contact until the goal had been accomplished. But this new M, he's a different breed. He sees the value of the latest technology, and believes in his agents having every resource available to them for the successful completion of a mission.

So now he has a constant companion, in the form of Q; a voice in his ear with just the right detail at just the right moment. He's come to rely on that voice, and far from resenting it, he finds it a welcome distraction when he needs one, or a saving grace when he's in a tight spot.

Right now though, it's more than a bit inconvenient. Luison has just reentered the room, gun in hand and looking like he's ready to end this. 

"I am sorry, Mr. Bond," he says, flashing a grin that's at once feral and determined. "It seems that here is where our paths must part. I would wish you well in your future endeavors, but, well, I'm afraid you won't be having any."

And just like that, Luison pulls the trigger.

Bond can see the bullet cutting through the air, aiming straight for his chest. It slices through muscle and bone, ripping into his heart and spilling precious blood. He rocks back in the chair, the impact of the large caliber tipping him over until he lands on his side.

Blood pools around him, and he can see Luison standing over him, nudging his body with the toe of one shoe. He doesn't have the energy to respond beyond a pained moan. Luison grins manically before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving Bond to bleed out on the floor.

He can hear Q frantically calling his name, but at this point, words are beyond him. His chest is on fire, his ears are ringing, and he's lost feeling in his arms. His whole world has narrowed down to this one moment and the three feet surrounding him on the floor. He's dimly aware of the fact that Q had told him there were security cameras in this warehouse, so it's quite likely that his Quartermaster isn't just hearing what's happened, but also seeing it for himself.

He can taste metal in his mouth, quite likely blood, and that's definitely not good. He has to get this under control or risk being lost for good. Taking as deep a breath as he's able, given the circumstances, he closes his eyes and allows his body to go still. Q continues to call to him, but he can't be bothered to respond.

The taste of blood takes him back to that day, oh so long ago, the day he was Made. He can remember like it was yesterday; the sharp tang of the blood, how it burned as it flowed down his throat; the spike of pain as the sword pierced his chest, buried to the hilt. The night passed in a blur, but he can still remember bits and pieces. He remembers not being alone most of all, how there was a gentle hand at his brow, and words of encouragement murmured in his ear. It's not unlike the situation he finds himself in today, and for just a moment, he takes comfort in the fact that Q is still with him.

He can feel his body mending itself, flesh knitting back together; he'll have to figure out how to retrieve the bullet later, but that's a problem for another time. He risks opening his eyes long enough to take stock of his surroundings. Apparently, Luison had honestly believed that he'd be dead long before he figured out how to get out of his bindings, because the door has been left hanging wide open. Bond grunts in acknowledgement of the sheer stupidity of not waiting until your prisoner is most definitely dead before leaving the room.

He begins the difficult task of releasing himself from the ropes binding him, so focused on his task that it isn't until he's well out of the ones around his wrists that he finally tunes in to the sounds coming from his earpiece. Q sounds nearly frantic, but Bond doesn't stop his efforts. He'll deal with Q in a moment, when he's sure he's free and back on his feet.

Finally free of the ropes binding him, he sits up, taking stock of himself. His suit is a total loss, covered in blood as it is. He's still weak from the blood loss, but it's manageable, and one good night of sleep will set him to rights again. Not that he'll be getting that anytime soon. He has no idea where he is, but he does know it's dark outside. That should both help and hinder, but he can't worry about that now.

The voice in his ear becomes insistent, breaking through his thoughts. "007, I demand you tell me what's going on!"

"I'm fine, Q," he says.

"Fine? Bloody hell, 007," Q fires back, the panic only slightly less obvious now that Bond has finally answered him. "Until a moment ago, you were bleeding out on the floor of a warehouse in Caracas. That's not fine."

Bond sighs. So much for waiting until a more appropriate time to have this conversation. He pushes off the floor and starts looking around the warehouse. "Q, listen very carefully. I will explain this to you, I promise you. But I need you to focus now. Can you see where Luison and his men have gone?"

He hears Q take a deep breath, and then there's the sound of clicking keys, which is good. Give him something to do so he won't dwell on what he's seen and heard and maybe Bond will get out of this without further harm.

"Don't think I'm going to forget, 007," Q says. Bond would have been disappointed if he had. "Luison is in a black SUV, moving north from your current location." Bond finally spots what he's looking for: his Walther PPK, the one keyed to his palm print, in a dark corner of the room. Luison had tossed it when he couldn't shoot Bond with it, causing Bond to thank his Quartermaster—and all his lucky stars, whether he believes in them or not—for the new design.

He settles the gun in his shoulder holster, already feeling more like himself. He spots Luison's .45, tossed into the same dark corner, and picks it up, tucking it into the waistband of his trousers. He has a good idea what he can do with it. "I'll need some transportation."

"There's a motorcycle outside, key in the ignition," Q says. "I can put you ahead of Luison, but you'll have to hurry. He's headed for an airstrip north of town."

Bond looks up, spotting the camera overhead. He nods once in thanks, then heads for the door and the motorcycle. He's got a mission to complete and not a lot of time to complete it. And if luck is with him, he won't end up with any more bullet wounds he can't explain.

~o~

He catches up with Luison at the airstrip. The man's got his G6 gassed up and ready to go. What he isn't expecting is James Bloody Bond waiting for him on the tarmac. Bond doesn't hesitate one second; his first shot takes out the driver through the windshield, and as soon as the second body guard steps out of the vehicle, Bond's put a bullet between his eyes. 

Luison steps out of the back seat, still looking smug, brandishing yet another .45, though this one is less flashy than the gold-embossed showpiece he'd used to shoot Bond.

"You appear to be more resilient than I'd first thought, Mr. Bond," Luison says. "But that's hardly of consequence. Not even you can survive a shot to the head."

He raises his gun, but Bond is that much quicker. A bloody hole blooms in Luison's forehead, and the man collapses into a heap beside the SUV. Bond moves over to the vehicle, checking the bodyguards for a pulse even though he knows that they're both dead. 

When he gets to Luison, he stands over the body for a long moment. It isn't the first time someone had tried to end him; far from it. But something about this time is different.

"007, it's time to go," Q says quietly in his ear.

And that, right there, is the difference. It's been a long time since he's had a witness to who he really is. There will be fallout from this, of that he has no doubt. It remains to be seen just what this will cost him.

"Did they file a flight plan?" Bond asks as he places the .45 into Luison's unresisting hand. Let the local authorities figure it all out, he thinks. He'd take a moment to enjoy the irony, but he's got a plane to catch.

"They were bound for Miami, according to the manifest," Q says as Bond ascends the stairs.

He passes the pilot and co-pilot, out cold and tied up in the main cabin. He would feel bad about that, except that the fewer witnesses to his exploits, the better for him.

"Hmmm," Bond hums. "It's been a while since I've enjoyed all that South Beach has to offer."

"Unfortunately, South Beach will have to wait," Q says. "M is expecting you back for debrief day after tomorrow."

"Plenty of time," Bond says. He settles into the pilot's seat and begins to go through the pre-flight checklist, donning the headset and making contact with the tower. "What about the footage from the warehouse?"

"I've already transferred it to my personal server and wiped the originals," Q says. "No one can get to it unless I want them to."

Bond breathes easier at that. This modern age with its video surveillance and 24/7 news cycle means that his secret is harder than ever to keep. He trusts Q to keep it, but he feels better knowing the proof is under lock and key.

"Thank you, Q."

"You also owe me an explanation, 007."

"And I haven't forgotten," Bond says. He pauses to talk to the tower, requesting permission to take off. "Go home, Q. Get some rest. We'll talk when I get back, I promise."

Q falls silent, much to Bond's relief. He's tired, the blood loss and adrenaline crash combining to sap what little energy reserves he has. He only hopes he reaches Miami before he hits the wall. There's a small clinic in Little Havana where he can have the bullet removed from his chest, which will mean he won't be able to enjoy the pleasures of South Beach after all. 

A few hours' rest in a nice hotel suite and he should be able to fly home to London just in time to debrief M. And then he'll have to figure out a way to explain all of this to Q in a way that will make sense to the young Quartermaster.

It hasn't been this important that someone believe him in a very long time.

~o~

When Bond steps off the plane in Miami, he's wearing a cream linen suit and a pale blue shirt, both of the finest quality money can buy. He's only lucky Luison was prepared to stay a while, and that they were both of a size. He shudders to think how the trip through customs would have gone had he still been covered in blood, nevermind that it was his own.

He'd still had his cover ID on him when Luison and his men got the drop on him, and Luison had kindly tucked several bundles of hundreds in with his clothes, so he's actually got resources at his disposal for this side trip.

He rents a car at the airport, only getting a curious glance when he presents cash to pay for it. Likewise the hotel, a swanky boutique hotel in the heart of South Beach, who greet him like visiting royalty when he presents them with cash to pay for the suite, as if that were an everyday occurrence.

It probably is, and Bond tries very hard not to think about what kind of man they assume he is if he's carrying around that much cash.

Once inside the room, he hits the shower, finally rid of the dried blood, sweat and dirt he's accumulated over the last 24 hours. He leaves the earpiece on the night stand. It's remained curiously silent since he took off from Caracas, which he's hoping means Q took his advice and went home to sleep.

Knowing Q, he's probably holed up in his office, checking every camera feed in Miami, making sure he's okay.

Oddly, that warms Bond's heart.

He places one phone call, making an appointment for the following morning at the clinic in Little Havana. The sun is setting, and all around him South Beach is coming to life. He decides a little dinner is in order. Sadly, companionship will be off the table this time around. He's still weak from the blood loss, and even though the surgery to remove the bullet will be minor, it'll tax whatever reserves he can build up with a good night's sleep.

So, a nice quiet dinner and maybe a drink or two as he watches the world go by. Not an unpleasant way to pass an evening, if a tad boring by his usual standards.

~o~

Hours later, he's still sitting on the outdoor patio of the small Cuban restaurant he'd chosen, the Ropa Vieja settling nicely in his stomach while he savors the scotch he'd ordered after dinner.

He becomes aware of a presence behind him just as a man joins him at the table. Bond tenses for a moment, his hand twitching toward his gun safely tucked into its holster, before he recognizes his new companion.

"Caine," Bond says.

Horatio Caine nods his head. "Bond. What brings you to Miami?"

Bond studies the man across from him. To all outward appearances, he's a man in his late forties or early fifties, careworn but steadfast. He's wearing a dark suit despite the heat still lingering in the air, and sunglasses that he's only just removed. Startling blue eyes gaze back from beneath a halo of red hair.

Bond's lips lift in a barely-there smile. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Caine cracks the barest of smiles in return. "When that friend turns up unannounced, bringing the fires of hell behind him, yes, I think it is."

"My apologies," Bond says. "The pilots were unharmed. And paid handsomely to keep their mouths shut."

"Hmmm, yes, they were," Caine says. He spears Bond with a look. "You're not bringing trouble into my city, are you?"

"Their boss is dead," Bond says bluntly. "I suspect those two will tell you everything they know about Luison's criminal activities. They had no wish to die for him; gave up the plane without a fight. Disappointing, really."

Caine chuckles. "Leave it to you to be disappointed you didn't get a fight out of them."

Bond tilts his head, acknowledging the right of it. He flags down a waiter, ordering another scotch for himself and tequila for his companion. 

"So, did Magda inform on me?" Bond asks.

"She may have called me after she talked to you," Caine says, casting a furtive glance at the man beside him. "It _is_ rare to have two of us in the same city these days."

"Fair enough," Bond says. Their drinks arrive, and Caine immediately slams back a shot, then pours another that he sips more slowly. "You're looking well. Miami appears to agree with you."

"It does," Caine says.

"Do you miss it?"

"Ireland?" Caine asks, though Bond is sure he knows that's exactly what he meant. "Hard to miss a place I haven't seen in a lifetime. Several lifetimes, in fact."

Bond can understand the sentiment. Horatio Caine had been Made long before Bond had even been a twinkle in his father's eye, chosen and trained by the Chief Paladin to the Eternal King himself. Bond had always liked and respected Caine, and the men had become fast friends. He'd warned Bond, all those years ago, that becoming an Eternal Warrior meant leaving everything you'd known behind. It was a high price to pay, but everyone called to the King knew that going in.

Of course, Bond himself had hung on to his family manor at Skyfall, mostly because he'd been the last of his line, so there was really no one left to care about the old place. Not that it much matters now; all that's left is a burnt-out skeleton. 

"So, when do you leave?" Caine asks, breaking into Bond's thoughts.

"Trying to get rid of me already?" Bond asks, only half kidding.

Caine smiles, one of those quiet, secret smiles that he saves for people who matter to him. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Bond huffs a laugh. "Sooner than I'd like," he says, answering Caine's original question. "I'm due back in London sooner than later for debriefing. M gets twitchy when his agents are afield for too long."

"Makes you miss Herself that much more, eh?"

Bond tosses back the last of the scotch, feeling the burn all the way down. It's a shame to do that to such a fine scotch, but talking of the old M is still painful in ways he'd rather not examine too closely. He stands, Caine following suit.

Caine extends his arm, and Bond grasps it clasping their forearms together. "May the Eternal King be between you and harm in all the empty places where you must walk."

"And you as well, my brother," Bond says.

And with that, Caine puts his sunglasses on and slips away into the night. Bond watches him go, then leaves a few bills on the table and heads for the exit himself. He needs rest, and he won't get it here, chasing old ghosts.

~o~

Bond sits in the darkened room, the moonlight streaming in through the windows the only light to see by. He's been here a while, nursing a scotch, waiting. He's contemplated leaving a couple of times, but each time he remembers he's got a promise to keep, and he won't rest easy until he keeps it.

Sound from the door across the room draws his attention. A figure is moving across the floor, nearly silently. He sees the person reach for the switch on the lamp at the end of the sofa, and then soft light washes everything in a warm glow.

"Bloody hell, 007," Q says, lowering his gun. "I could have shot you."

Bond smirks. "A little hard to do that with the safety on, Q."

Q levels the gun at him once more, the safety clicking off before he's even sighted his target. It's all so very smooth and fluid, as though its muscle memory instead of adrenaline. Bond's estimation of Q goes up.

"Alright, you know your way around a gun, I'll give you that."

Q lowers the gun, flicking the safety back on. He pulls the holster out of the small of his back and tucks the gun inside. Turning, he heads for what Bond has already determined is his bedroom, emerging moments later without his gun, coat and tie. He pours himself a measure of scotch, waggling the bottle at Bond, who shakes his head minutely.

He'd rather be sober when he does this. Q doesn't need any more reasons to mistrust him, and believing his story to be the drunken ravings of a slightly over-the-hill double-0 agent won't help.

When Q has settled at the other end of the couch, he takes a sip of his scotch and waves at Bond to get on with it.

Bond heaves a sigh. "You have to understand that I haven't told this to anyone in many, many years."

"What, that you're somehow immortal? You do know that's impossible, 007, don't you?"

"Not as impossible as you think," Bond says, huffing out a laugh. "I was born on 11 November, 1739 in what is now Glencoe, Scotland."

Q, who had just taken a sip of his drink, practically chokes, while Bond looks on, amused. "Should I be calling for them to haul you away to a padded room? Bloody hell!"

"It's true," Bond says, shrugging. "I was aboard a Navy Frigate during the American Rebellion. I was actually wounded in a battle near Baltimore; damn near died, in point of fact."

"Well, obviously not, since you're here," Q says, then pulls a face as if he can't believe he's actually considering that Bond is telling the truth.

"No, obviously not," Bond says. "I was actually tossed overboard after a particularly vicious volley. Washed up on shore two days later, hypothermic and disoriented."

"Let me guess, you were bitten by a vampire? It would explain so much about your love of violence, 007."

Bond laughs at that. "Vampires aren't real, Q. Even you should know that."

"And yet you persist in saying that you're immortal," Q says. He tilts his head, eyeing Bond with one eye slightly closed. "Like you've stepped out of that bloody Highlander movie or something." Q's eyes go wide for a moment. "That's not real, is it?"

Bond outright laughs at that. "You certainly do have a vivid imagination." He takes a sip of his drink. "I am an Eternal Warrior, as we are known in legend. Descended from the Paladins of Charlemagne's court."

"I've heard of Paladins," Q says, his voice taking on a contemplative tone. "They were the most trusted knights of Charlemagne's army. There were nine of them, as I recall, including his own nephew."

"There are twelve Paladins," Bond corrects him gently. "I was chosen and trained by Oliver, the best friend of Roland, who was—"

"Charlemagne's nephew," Q says. "Yes, I'm familiar with the legends. And so, it would seem, are you."

Bond sits there and watches Q for a moment, knowing that the other man will have a counter argument for everything he says. There's really only one way to prove to him that Bond is on the level. He'd hoped to avoid this, not because he's weak from the blood loss and the surgery, though Magda had lectured him when he'd arrived at the clinic in such poor shape. 

No, he'd thought Q wouldn't need him to shed blood in front of him because he'd seen the video and knew what Bond had gone through in Caracas. Still, he thinks this might be the shortest path to having a real conversation about just who and what he is.

Bond reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out his knife, extending the blade. He sets his glass on the coffee table and draws the blade across the skin of his open palm without ceremony. Q gasps, watching with avid fascination as the blood pools in his palm. Bond takes the handkerchief from the pocket inside his suit coat and wipes at his hand, revealing pristine skin, no sign of the cut he'd just inflicted on himself.

Q leans forward, grasping Bond's had and examining the skin. Bond allows it, holding still as Q plays his fingers over the site of the cut, looking for the lie.

"I'd have thought you wouldn't need visual proof after you watched me damned near bleed out in that warehouse," Bond says quietly.

Q sighs, leaning back into the cushions. "Because it's not possible to have seen you essentially rise from the dead, 007. No one can do that."

"If it makes you feel any better," Bond says as he sets the knife and bloody handkerchief on the coffee table and picks up his drink, settling back into the cushions, "I didn't actually die. I'm not saying it wasn't close, but I didn't even lose consciousness. If I'd died, I wouldn't be here."

"So, you can be killed?" Q asks.

"Of course I can," Bond says. "I'm not actually immortal, just very long lived."

"How did this happen?" Q asks. "How does one become an Eternal Warrior?"

"I told you I was thrown overboard by a cannon blast," Bond says. He takes a sip of his drink, letting his mind drift back to that day, oh so long ago. "It was Oliver who found me. He pulled me out of the water and nursed me back to health. Then he took me to meet his King. I was given an opportunity: become an Eternal Warrior and fight on the side of right. I knew we were going to lose the war, and I was bloody tired of fighting the same battles over and over again. So, I accepted their offer.

"That night, I was Made," Bond says, remembering for the second time in two days the night his life changed forever.

"What do you mean, 'made'?" Q asks.

"There is a Rite of Passage we must endure to become an Eternal Warrior," Bond says, holding up his hand when it appears that Q means to press him for details. "Only those who've been through the ritual may know what's involved. Suffice to say that it's not for the faint of heart."

~

_The journey to reach the King's encampment had been long, and with Bond's health still fragile, he'd been worn out. Oliver had turned him over to one of the camp followers, who had fussed and tutted over him, making him eat and rest, and tending to his wounds so they wouldn't fester._

_Two weeks later, he'd been taken before the King. His memory of the man was fuzzy, but he'd later learned that no one much remembers what the King looks like, only that he had kind eyes and strong but gentle hands._

_The King eyed him up and down, then asked but one question: "Do you wish to fight the same battles over and over again, or are you ready to fight for something more important?"_

_Bond had become disillusioned by his time in the Navy, fighting the Americans when he couldn't see why it was so important to keep doing so. Yes, Britain would lose its colony, would lose free access to natural resources and free labor, but King George could just as easily strike trade agreements with the new nation and still have what they wanted. It might cost more, but it wouldn't cost them more blood._

_So Bond didn't have to think twice about the offer. "I want to fight for something that matters, Your Highness."_

_The King nodded, smiling as if he'd already known what Bond's answer would be._

_At sunset, those Warriors who were still in the encampment gathered around the fire. Bond knelt before the King and watched as the man used his knife to slice his hand open, pouring his own life's blood into a goblet filled with wine._

_Bond drank the whole thing, nearly choking as the mixture burned its way down his throat. The King drew his sword and held it up between them, the blade glinting in the firelight. "Tonight, as the sun sets the old shall pass away, and you shall be reborn, as each day is reborn with the dawn."_

_He'd plunged the sword into Bond's chest as the last of his words faded into the darkness. Bond's chest felt like it was on fire; he could taste blood in his mouth and knew he was dying. He collapsed into the dirt, feeling his life slipping away. He felt hands gripping him, carrying him, but all he could see were the kind eyes he'd come to know as the King's._

_They took him to a farmhouse they'd commandeered, laying him out in the front room. All but the King left him, and the room descended into silence. Through the long night, Bond clung to the feel of the King's hands on his skin, to the King's voice in his ear, and to the hope he could see in the man's eyes._

_When dawn broke, he was still alive. Weak as a kitten, but his wound was healed. The King had gone, but that was alright. Bond had lived._

~

"I'll never forget what he told me, as dawn was breaking over the hills," Bond whispered. "He said, 'I knew you would survive. You are strong, young one. Someday you will lead my Paladins, and I will be proud to call you my friend.'"

"Is it hard, remembering?" Q asks astutely.

Bond shakes his head, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Not hard, especially. Just, it was a long time ago, and a lot has happened since then."

"What did he mean, when he said you'd lead the Paladins?"

"Strictly speaking, the Paladins are the twelve Knights of the King's inner circle," Bond says. "Some have been with him since the beginning. Others were Made later and joined the inner circle when one of the Twelve fell. But functionally, all those who serve the King—all those who've endured the Ritual and come out the other side—are known as Paladins, though history and legend remembers them as Eternal Warriors."

"How many are there of you?" Q asks, leaning forward, well and truly caught now.

"Several hundred these days."

Q's eyes widen in surprise. "So few."

"Wars aren't fought the way they used to be, Q," Bond says. "Once upon a time, Charlemagne had an army to rival the largest in history. But times change. Now, the Paladins assimilate into standing armies and help guide the leaders in the right direction."

"I'm not sure you've noticed, 007," Q says, eyebrow arched, "but MI6 isn't a standing army."

"It's not?" Bond says, his own eyebrow lifting. "We safeguard the security of our home. We defend her from intrusions and proactively seek out those who would cause her harm. Wouldn't you consider that an army?"

"So, are there other Paladins in MI6?"

Bond smirks, knowing he walked right into that one. "There was one other Paladin in MI6."

Q's brow wrinkles. Bond knows that look; Q is flipping through his mental Rolodex, looking for who else might be a Paladin. Bond knows when he's figured it out by the honest shock on his face.

"M was one," he says, wonder and absolute conviction in his tone. "She was a Paladin, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was," Bond says. It's part of what made it easy for him to operate on the Service. She never had to worry about just how much danger she was sending him into. 

"Are there Paladins in other Services?" Q asks. 

Bond has to give him credit; he made the leap of logic rather easily, despite the fact that, just a few minutes ago, he didn't believe anyone could even be immortal.

"In other Services," Bond says, nodding. "In police forces and private security firms and armies and navies the world over. Wherever we can do the most good, that's where you'll find us."

"And the King?" Q asks. "I'm assuming he doesn't... do what you do?"

Bond chuckles. "No. The King and a select group of Paladins—some subset of the Twelve, usually—frequently travel the world, seeking out hot spots and battlefields, looking for new Paladins to bring into the fold."

"And when he's not traveling?"

"When he's not traveling, he and the Paladins can be found at his compound, training new Warriors, repairing worn and damaged equipment, nursing wounds." Bond smirks as Q opens his mouth to ask the natural follow-up question. "And no, I won't be telling you where that is."

Q subsides back into the couch, not even trying to get Bond to change his mind. They sit in silence for long minutes, sipping at their drinks. Bond allows Q the time to wrap his brain around this new reality. He knows this won't be the last time they talk about this. Q is inquisitive, and once this knowledge settles he'll have more questions. More _detailed_ questions.

"So, what now?" Q asks.

"Now," Bond says, setting his glass on the coffee table, "I go home and rest. And tomorrow, we start again."

"Just," Q says as Bond stands up. He glances away and then stands to face Bond. "Just, make sure you're careful. If you really can be killed, I'd rather it wasn't on my watch."

"Duly noted, Quartermaster," Bond says, smiling gently. It leaves him warm on the inside that someone cares that much about him.

They shake hands then, sharing a look, both of them adjusting to this new reality. It's been a while since Bond has had the luxury of someone watching his back who knows what he is.

He collects his knife and handkerchief and takes his leave, pausing on the sidewalk in front of Q's building. There's a light rain falling, but the moon is peeking through the clouds. Bond tips his head back and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. 

Bond isn't worried that Q will out him. Their young Quartermaster is as trustworthy as they come, so he knows his secret is safe. He thinks maybe Q would make a fine Paladin, not that he'll tell the other man that anytime soon. For now, he's just glad he has someone to share this burden with. 

Being an Eternal Warrior hasn't always been easy, but the King had been right, all those years ago. Spending a lifetime—or several—doing things that matter is more than reward enough.

~Finis

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the sneaky cameo. When I realized that Bond would be in Miami, it became obvious that Horatio Caine would be the Paladin Guardian of the city. He fits the profile perfectly, and being so obviously Irish, it would be natural for he and Bond to, well, bond. (For those not in the know, Horatio Caine was the head of the Miami-Dade Crime Lab on _CSI: Miami_.)
> 
> The benediction Horatio uses when he says goodbye to Bond is from an old Egyptian blessing: "God be between you and harm in all the empty places you must walk." I first heard it on Babylon 5 and fell in love with it. I've been dying to use it in a story, and finally found a way.
> 
> And the birthdate Bond gives Q is established in the John Pearson novel _James Bond: The Authorized Biography of 007_. According to Pearson, he was born on November 11, 1920. Obviously, I fudged the year. A little.


End file.
